Anticipation

That bit of an Advent sermon stays with me, even now as even Epiphany has passed. We prayed “Increase in us an anticipation of Your coming.” Advent is about the discipline of waiting, something so foreign in this instant society. Loosely quoting someone that our pastoral intern quoted in that sermon, “The only thing more wonderful than the event of Christ’s coming is the waiting for that wonderful event.”

That Sunday in Advent the words of that classic hymn spoke to me as well “O Come, O come Immanuel, and ransom captive Israel.” I questioned to myself “what inside of me is captive? “ The answer I found was this -- Hope is captive. Hope and the bold prayer for sweet reunion. Captive by the reality of “bitterness, envy and strife.” Captive by the reality of wounds -- both those that I have inflicted and those I have sustained. And following on that is the longing -- the longing I am afraid to give voice to because I cannot bear to hope and be disappointed again -- the longing to be embraced in the arms of those I have hurt, and the longing to finally forget the hurts I have had to forgive.

The reunion I long for is more than joining hands around a proverbial campfire and singing “Kum Ba Yah.” It’s a reunion that not just joins what has been separated, but instead makes something new and wonderful out of the broken pieces. Like a mosaic made of broken tiles, one which perhaps forms a cross, perhaps a chalice and loaf, perhaps a crashing wave of love…or perhaps something even more grand and wonderful than I can imagine. Will I see it this side of heaven? Don’t know… but I do know that God’s faithfulness is everywhere (Psalm 19, 108)

So I’m left here with my feet stuck firmly in the mud of that reality, and the sometime clear, sometimes faint vision of something more. And here is where I have to make myself forget the slights - real or imagined - and forgive. How do I make myself? The same way a house plant strains toward the light. Because of who I am, something in me knows that I need that healing light. But also because of who I am, I see places where I am deemed unworthy. Quickly on the heals of that thought, I have to find evidence of unmerited favor. It grates me to think of the crippled orphan that I was, and the grieving parents who swooped in to save me. I hate to think of the debt of gratitude that I can never repay. I still hear the ever-present “I love you” at the end of every phone call, and even when that doesn’t ring true, even when that human love shows itself imperfect, I turn my heart to faith, that stubborn optimism that cling to the truth knowing that without it I will surely perish.

So with the eyes of faith I say that some day my biological mother and father will meet my “real” parents, and that they will see beyond the walls of class, political party, lifestyle and beliefs to the people, the those who gave DNA, faith, tears, love dreams, and time … gave all of those things and more to me, or to just the idea of me … the baby and child and the woman who is all me. That each will see the sacrifice that was made as something divine, and that we’ll all be flooded with a holy awe, so much so that others will see and hear of it and say, “Wow, God. Wow. This could only be you, God. Wow.”

Come, Lord Jesus, Come.